Hands
by Remembrance Lane
Summary: The simple act of holding hands. NadiaDoyle Oneshot.


* * *

She isn't sure what she expects to see.

He's lying in the sterile hospital bed with his eyes taped shut facing straight ahead. His eyes were a lovely blue. Were. She idly recalls the times during that day when he watched her movements with a keen and trained intensity. He might never see again. He'll never be a field operative again. He might never see her again.

Her throat constricts tightly and she turns around and leaves.

…

Every day the nurse at the station by his room watches as she goes in and out. Nurse Moore watches in curiosity as the same young woman travels day in and day out into the same room. She never actually stays inside the room too long, but lately her visits have become lengthier. After one week of watching, her curiosity wins over.

She asks Yvonne, a work friend, who's in the room.

Yvonne answers with a sad nod of the head, "Some kind of government agent. Damaged his eyes badly in a blast."

She asks about the girl who visits.

Yvonne lets out a long whistle. "No, not a clue who she is. She comes in a lot though. Never really stays too long. Might be his girlfriend or something. I saw him come in and he was a decent looking guy."

Nurse Moore, or Christine, sighs sadly. It always happened to the one's with the pretty girlfriends and the nice lives.

She returns to watching the pretty girl go in and out and in and out.

But then one day, she stays.

…

"You've been coming in for the last two weeks."

She froze in place.

"I just wanted to know who you were. Your shoes make the same sound every day."

She drew in a breath desperately wanting to speak. But what could she say.

"Nadia?" The question contained a tone of annoyance and hope that was purely his own.

"Mike," she said back.

And then without meaning to she walked forward quickly and grabbed his hand.

…

In a way, she feels like she's betraying Milo.

After all, they hated each other. And maybe she should hate him instead of holding his hand every single day. He basically put out a witch-hunt for her because of what religion she had belonged to. But then he had made it right and had even saved her life. They were even. Even to the point where she really didn't have to care about what happened to him anymore.

She didn't owe him anything but everyday she held his hand.

…

She holds his hands in different ways.

Sometimes she grips too tightly and he lets out a growl and shakes her off.

Sometimes her grip is too loose, delicate even, and he mocks her for it.

Sometimes she laces her fingers through his or draws idle, soft patterns on his callused hands. He doesn't protest.

…

They both start to talk a lot.

Neither means to but things slip out when she strokes his hands. A soft, lulling comfort settles over them and they both forget why he's here and how they met.

She almost likes the fact that he can't see her because when he says things she doesn't need to hide her reaction. She tries to sometimes because she knows his sight will have to come back, and when it does she doesn't want to be an open book.

And eventually he can see again.

And that's when everything shifts.

…

"Why are you still coming?"

His question brings to light their odd situation and she looks down at their twined hands.

Why is she still coming?

She has a job and has a life. He's been broken down, reduced to some behind the desk job, a possible career in interrogating. She has a future. And she can't hide from his eyes because even though he can't see in one, his other is getting sharper every day.

Her expression reveals everything he needs to know.

"Does it even really matter," she asks in a tired voice.

"No," he concedes. "It doesn't."

She smiles and lifts his hand to her mouth. She places a gentle kiss on his upturned palm and he watches her silently. She then lets his finger slide into her mouth and he lets his eyes slip shut.

…

Christine finally decides to go inside the room.

She walks in to find the young girl wrapped snugly in the arms of a rough looking blond haired man. The girl looks delicate in her sleep but Christine has seen her walk with a certain stealth and power. Both of their eyes are shut and the girl's breathing is even. She watches them both in awe and deep curiosity and jumps when his eyes snap open.

He watches Christine with practiced coolness and she shivers.

But then she looks at his hands.

His large ones are carefully wrapped around the much smaller ones of the woman asleep on his chest.

His gaze flickers down to what she's looking at.

"I might love her," he says his voice quiet, yet strong.

And he holds her hand just a little tighter.


End file.
